Murder of a Creped Suzette

“Yes.” Olive replaced her hanky and took out a gold tube. “Loretta certainly wasn’t what we were expecting for Vince’s wife.”

“Why is that?” Skye’s voice had an edge to it. Loretta was African-American and Skye had been afraid some of the family might object to an interracial marriage. “She’s beautiful and intelligent.”

“I’m sure she is, dear.” Olive applied a fresh coat of dusty rose lipstick. “But perhaps a tad too sophisticated for Vince?”

“Huh?” Skye was relieved her aunt wasn’t referring to the color of Loretta’s skin, but had Olive just called Vince a hick?

“What she means,” an impatient male voice said, breaking into their conversation, “is that Vince likes them young, pretty, dumb, and agreeable, not mature, elegant, smart, and with a mind of their own.”

Dante had materialized in front of them like a malevolent poltergeist. He was short and stout, wearing a disgruntled expression and a black denim leisure suit that had gone out of style forty years ago.

Skye forced a pleasant smile and said, “Vince has changed—grown up.”

“Right.” Dante snorted. “They’ll be in divorce court before the new year.”

“You’re wrong, Uncle Dante.” Skye refused to let his statement stand. Others could kowtow to the mayor, but she wasn’t about to—not on this issue. “Why would you even say that? Vince and Loretta are in love and that’s all that matters.”

“Love is a myth women made up to keep men in line.” Dante folded his arms. “It’s certainly not a good reason to get married.”

“Then why did you get married?” Skye blurted out, then wished she hadn’t when she saw her aunt’s stricken expression.

“To produce an heir.” Dante waddled closer to the women, looking a lot like a pissed-off penguin. “Now, if you two are through gossiping and Skye will get her butt out of my seat, I’d like to get out of here before the parking lot becomes a madhouse.”

Skye jumped up and gestured to Dante’s canvas throne. “Be my guest.” She tilted her head. “You must have had very important business with Mr. Taylor to stick around this long.”

Dante didn’t respond to Skye’s probe. Instead he jerked his chin at his wife and said, “Olive, are you going to sit there all night?”

“No, Dante.” Olive leaped to her feet, nearly saluting. “Sorry.”

Dante ignored her, folded both the chairs, shoved them into their carrying bags, heaved the straps over his shoulders, and picked up the cooler, then marched off without a backward glance.

“Bye, dear.” Olive waved to Skye, then hastily tottered after her husband, but not before Skye noticed the tears on her cheeks.

“Shit! ” Skye stomped her foot. She had failed to learn anything about Rex Taylor’s scheme, and she’d hurt her aunt. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

“Do you kiss your fiancé with that mouth?” Wally’s amused baritone enveloped Skye.

She turned to find him directly behind her. “Only if he’s lucky.”

Chief Walter Boyd was an extremely attractive man who superbly filled out his crisply starched police uniform. He had eyes the color of Godiva chocolate, curly black hair with just a touch of silver at the temples, and a year-round tan. But it wasn’t his handsome face or sexy body that made Skye love him; it was his sense of humor and his compassionate nature.

“My horoscope said something great would occur today.” Wally’s dazzling white smile was rueful. “And thus far nothing even close to good has happened to me, so you must be it.”

Skye flung herself into his embrace, reveling in feeling his muscular arms around her and his solid chest beneath her cheek. “You can tell me all about it on the way home.” She gave him a lingering kiss, then took his hand and tried to lead him toward the parking lot.

Wally didn’t budge. “That’s why I was looking for you. It’ll be quite a while until I can leave.”

“Darn.” Skye’s smile was teasing. “And here I was planning to make you forget all about your troubles. Is there a problem?”

“Too many to list.” Wally winced as the sound of shouting interrupted them. “Let’s just say I sure hope they run out of beer soon.”

“Gee, and I thought the open bar would bring out the best in everyone,” Skye mocked.

A cherry bomb exploded somewhere behind them. “Sorry about tonight,” Wally said over his shoulder as he took off running. “I’ll take you somewhere nice for brunch after church tomorrow.”

“No problem.” Skye waved. “Go do your duty and keep Scumble River safe.”

On the way to her car, Skye paused to watch a brawny man in his early thirties tip over one of the Port-a-Potties. Once it was on its side, the man yanked open the door and pulled out the occupant. He plucked a plastic six-pack holder off the guy’s head and plopped it on his own skull. A tussle ensued between the two men, with the victor bloodying the nose of his foe and reclaiming his crown.

Clutching a bottle of Budweiser, the winner climbed on top of the downed outhouse and screamed, “I’m the king of the world.”

Skye shook her head. Testosterone really should be declared a controlled substance.